The sun hid behind a gray cloud, darkening the sky. Shadows loomed around every corner, peering out at fearful passersby.
Thunder rumbled, filling the damp air with its sound. Rain poured and muddy gutters swallowed it down.
Most others would be sheltering under colorful, striped, umbrellas, but not me. My mind was in shock, not comprehending those life-changing words. The words that changed my life forever.
“I’m sorry, Cecelia, but I’m afraid you are going to go blind,” the doctor had told me. I had just stared at him, hoping that he was playing a joke. Needless to say, he wasn’t.
The sentence had replayed in my head over and over again, until they slurred together into one incomprehensible word.
I walked home slowly that night, dripping mud onto the dirty metro. The bus moved forwards slowly, its engines groaning. By the time it pulled to a stop, I felt like I had gone into the Underworld, for blindness was an artist’s worst nightmare.
How could I let my paintbrush sing with happiness if I could not see anymore? How would I be able to survive? Painting was a part of me. Without it, I felt like I had lost a part of my soul.
I kicked a rock as hard as I could, grunting with the effort. It landed with a splash in a deep puddle, sinking to the bottom like my broken heart.
I trudged to the door of my house, yanking open the door and slamming it to a close behind me. My small, brown dog pounced on me, eager to play.
“Sorry, Charlie, but not today,” I said, forcing a small smile. Charlie and I usually got along like a well-oiled machine, but today, I had to resist the temptation to throw his overly happy face out of the door like a baseball.
I plodded to my room, Charlie right on my heels. It was covered with layers and layers of paintings, all made with love. Today, however, seeing them filled me with white-hot rage, blinding me.
I let out a scream and launched myself at my paintings, ripping them to shreds. White canvas fell through the sky like snowflakes. Charlie whimpered, unused to my aggressive and hostile behavior. He shrank back like I was a monster rising from the abyss.
My life was over, for who was I without my sight? My anger ranted out, I sighed and collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. Tears streamed down my face like a never-ending river.
I smashed my hand into the mirror on the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. The pieces fell upon the ground, covering it with a layer of snow. I gasped, watching as blood streamed down my bloodstained fist, pain seizing my body like I was its one and only lifeline.
My hand shaking like a leaf quivering on a branch on a windy day, I snatched up a large shard of glass and drew it slowly across the inside of my pale wrist, revealing blood erupting out of my veins like lava from a volcano.
My heart shuddered as I watched the life drain out of me. I slumped to the ground, my eyes darting across the ceiling, and my chest rose and fell for the last time.
How would one feel if they were revived after a blotched suicide attempt? I would not know. As I laid there on those clean, white sheets on the hospital bed, I only felt numbness, much like how I felt when I first heard those dreaded words. For what was the point of life if sight was not part of it?
“You’re lucky,” the doctors said. “If your dog had not went to the neighbor’s house, you would not be alive today.” If I really were so lucky, how come I felt so unfortunate?
As the days, months, years passed, my sight deteriorated until it was no more. The chirping of cheerful birds were no longer accompanied by the sight of blue jays and robins, but darkness. I would look up at the bright blue sky, only to see darkness. Light no longer existed in my world.
It was like there was a gray cloud over me, and anyone who got close would inherit some of my bad luck. When I walk across the street, my cane tapping the cracked sidewalk in front of me, others would steer away, muttering about my blindness.
My days were filled with sorrow and grief. I spent my days mourning my loss and stayed home, sitting on my moth-eaten couch and staring into space.
I knew that my life could not be spent living under a rock forever. One day, I worked up all the remaining dregs of my strength and lifted myself up, pushing open the creaking door. For the first time in months, I breathed in fresh air and felt sunshine on my face.
As I left my house, Charlie yipped in excitement, dancing around me. Being outside in nature did wonders. For the first time, I felt hope. Hope for my future.
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